Horse's Arse (21 page)

    His
role as staff officer was a 24-hour one, with regular overnight stops away from
Force with the Chief when he attended conferences and the like. Curtis's wife
was beginning to tire of his long days and regular absences, and life at home
had become distinctly awkward.

    'The
Patrol Group, sir? Is that wise? You know what they're like. They could inflame
things badly.'

    You complete
knob, thought the Chief to himself, and taking a deep breath. 'How could things
get any worse, Kevin?' he said aloud. 'What have we got to lose? We need a new
commander in there to support Hilary; a couple of weeks of the Patrol Group on
a long leash and things will quieten down. The place is a complete shithole,
but I'm buggered if a group of young thugs is going to be allowed to terrorise
the few decent folk there whilst we organise group meetings to discuss the
problem. The problem's clear enough. Arses need kicking on both sides of the
fence.'

    'If
you say so, sir. Are you sure?' stammered Curtis.

    'As
sure as I can be. Have you told that imbecile Gillard that I'm going to pay him
a visit?'

    'Yes,
yes I did, sir,' replied Curtis, immediately regretting the phone call which
had been no more than a professional courtesy.

    'Wish
you hadn't. Never mind, though; it'll give him time to work himself into a real
lather. Maybe bring on that huge thrombo he's due. When are we going?'

    'Any
time you like, sir. Your car's downstairs.'

    'Fine,
let's do it now,' said Daniells, grabbing his cap and coat from a hatstand in
the corner and striding purposefully out of the office, followed at a
respectful distance by his bag carrier. The office enjoyed views across playing
fields to Heston Lakes, and only four miles beyond them Horse's Arse. Daniells
could see the Grant Flowers tower block from the office and he glanced briefly
in that direction as he left. As he did so, the raiding party neared the flats.

    The Patrol
Group that Daniells saw as part of the answer to the problems at Horse's Arse
comprised three mobile units that covered the whole county with a brief to make
short, sharp visits to divisions with a specific problem. Each unit consisted
of a sergeant and ten constables, and for the most part they patrolled in
liveried Ford Transit vans fitted with grilles on all the windows and heavy
rubber skirts around the wheel arches. Their speciality was public disorder and
each vehicle carried riot shields and NATO helmets which they liked to utilise
as often as possible. A two-year attachment to the group was viewed as a major
achievement and generally officers only got on to it having proved themselves
elsewhere as a good thief-taker and handy in a punch- up.

    The
rivalry between the three units sometimes manifested itself in fistfights
during the monthly training day when the entire Patrol Group got together. They
would practise deployment from their vans with shields, storming buildings, riot
control - when petrol bombs were thrown at them - and, bizarrely, huge exposure
to CS gas in a hut on a disused airfield. They were all trained in the use of
.38 Smith and Wesson handguns and Remington pump-action shotguns and were
regularly deployed, fully armed, at high security trials at the local Crown
court.

    The
units built up close camaraderie and proved enormously successful wherever they
went. They were responsible for huge numbers of crime arrests and had recently
begun to take on responsibility for drug offence investigations around the
county. They wore their hair slightly longer than divisional officers, Jack
Regan sideboards were 'de rigueur', and their caps were usually worn at a
jaunty angle on the back of the head. The real 'hotdogs' preferred slashed peaks
rendering normal vision virtually impossible. They were issued with overcoats
that were exclusive to the group and revelled in their reputation.

    Above
all, they had a reputation for violence. Officers on the Patrol Group accounted
for two thirds of all complaints currently under investigation by Complaints
and Discipline. Unit Three, which covered 'B' Division and Horse's Arse, had
worked hard to cultivate their reputation as mad, bad motherfuckers, and with
four officers on their complement who had served at Horse's Arse it was not one
they would lose in a hurry.

    Unit
Three were based at, and run from, County Headquarters, but had offices at the
stations they covered where they would retire after an operation to get their
evidence sorted. This morning they were at their Divisional HQ at Alpha Tango,
writing up their pocketbooks about a drugs raid they had undertaken the night
before. They'd had a good result: six prisoners including the main dealer,
several pounds of cannabis resin seized, and nearly forty wraps of white powder
which was due to go to the lab for analysis later that morning. The dealer had
received the kicking of his life before he'd given them the whereabouts of his
stash, and now his car lay in pieces in the back yard as two officers
systematically dismantled it looking for more drugs.

    Six
other officers were at their desks, talking quietly and writing their
pocketbook entries, all carefully corroborating each arrest, seizure of drugs
and report of admissions. Their sergeant, John Frost, was in the small
adjoining kitchen making tea when the phone in the main office rang. He left
the kettle to boil, went into the office and picked up the receiver.

    'Patrol
Group,' he said abruptly.

    The
voice at the other end belonged to the inspector who ran the Patrol Group from
County Headquarters.

    'Hello,
John. Nice result last night, I hear.'

    'Yeah,
very nice, guv. Six bodies and quite a bit of gear recovered.'

    'I take
it your boys are still writing it up. Any idea how long you'll be? I've got a
job for you that's right up your street.'

    'Couple
of hours, that's all, guv. Why, what you got for us?'

    'Things
have gone tits up at Horse's Arse again. The Mafia went on the rampage last
night and the Chief's decided to stamp on them. He wants to put a unit in there
for a couple of weeks with a blank cheque to sort things out. If you're tucked
up I can use Unit Two — they're only doing some shoplifting operation at the
moment.'

    'No,
don't do that, guv,' said Frost urgently. 'We'll finish up here on the hurry up
and be with you as soon as we can. We'll deal. Unit Two don't know Horse's
Arse. We do.'

    'OK,
John. Let me know when you're on your way. I'll have more details by then.'

    'Thanks,
guv. See you later,' said Frost, hanging up the phone, ignoring the boiling
kettle and going out to the office where his boys were still writing.

    'Listen
up, lads, good news,' he said. They stopped and looked up at him. 'Horse's Arse
needs another visit from us,' he continued. 'The Mafias been playing silly
buggers and the Chief wants it sorted. No questions asked. We need to finish up
here and get back to HQ as soon as we can.'

    The
group of writers erupted in joyous whoops and shouts and resumed their scribing
with renewed urgency. Frost went out into the yard to speak to the officers
stripping the dealer s car and received an identical response. He then wandered
over to their van and began to check that they had everything they'd need for
their visit. He loved his job and regarded his boys with paternal affection.
Satisfied that the shields, helmets and pickaxe handles were all in place, he
busied himself checking fuel, oil and water. They'd be on their way soon enough,
back into Horse's Arse where they really belonged.

    As
Morgan had told the two detectives, the other Mafia were indeed at Alan Baker's
flat, and still fast asleep. After their escape from the pub, they'd burgled an
off-licence and drunk until the early hours of the morning, smoking huge
spliffs and generally whooping it up. They were the kings of their squalid
universe and confident of their invincibility despite the capture of eight of
their number. The Mafia's code of conduct demanded complete non-cooperation
with the police and it was strictly enforced with brutal beatings of those
suspected of even slight deviation from the path. There was no way that those
locked up at Horse's Arse would tell the Old Bill anything. Not a chance. Not
even the youngest and newest member. No fucking way. Morgan had been discussed
during the piss-up and despite some reservations all had eventually agreed that
he knew what was best for him. 'He'd fucking better,' Alan Baker had growled,
'if he wants to keep eating solids.'

    Baker
was a vicious, tattooed young thug whose appetite for violence had propelled
him into the upper echelons of the Mafia, second only to Bobby Driscoll. A true
psychopath, Driscoll ran the Mafia like a feudal warlord, utilising the less
intelligent Baker to enforce his perverted will. Driscoll and Baker were a
formidable duo. Driscoll, full of animal cunning, was an accomplished
manipulator. He operated a Stalinist 'divide and rule' doctrine, keeping the
Mafia at each other's throats with snide innuendoes and insinuations. Even
Baker, his right-hand man, was not spared. From time to time, Driscoll would
identify another member of the Mafia to him as having indicated that they
fancied moving into his place. All complete rubbish, of course, but sufficient
to goad the mentally unstable Baker to administer a brutal attack on his
perceived challenger and maintain the air of brutalised instability that
Driscoll thrived on like a malodorous baboon pack leader.

    Driscoll
was something of an oddity amongst the group he led in that he had stayed at
school until he was seventeen and was relatively well educated. However, Adolf
Hitler's observation that 'knowledge is ruin to my young men' was never truer
than in his case. Physically no match for most of his group, he had discovered
at school that the ability to bullshit soon had the bullet-heads furrowing
their brows and looking at him with lower jaws sagging. His hardcore, original
Mafia had all been at school with him from an early age. They had run as an
unruly pack in junior school, but it was not until they entered the local
comprehensive that the group of about twenty, all resident on the Park Royal
estate, came under his sinister spell and gelled into what became known as the
Mafia. The original Mafia were now all in their early twenties and liked to
keep themselves apart from the younger, newer recruits like Morgan. Including
the newer recruits, Driscoll had at his disposal around forty aggressive young
hoodlums, though in reality it was rare for as many as half of that number to
be together at any one time. The fifteen that had tried to run the Hoop and
Grapes had been an exceptional turnout. Losing eight to the Old Bill was quite
a setback, but he was confident none of them would tell them anything. Not even
Morgan.

    There
was a lot riding on Morgan's keeping his nerve, not just the liberty of those
who had escaped capture at the Hoop and Grapes. Driscoll had brought him into
the 'senior' Mafia against the wishes of some of the others, Baker included,
and during the piss-up he was acutely aware that the doubts expressed about
Morgan were indirectly aimed at him. His warped intellect and contrived rage
eventually brought grudging agreement that Morgan would keep quiet, but
Driscoll could see cracks appearing. He knew he'd have to get them fighting
amongst themselves again very soon, but first he had to get Baker back onside,
which wouldn't be difficult. That was where Myra Baldwin, the only female in
the Mafia, would come in useful. Her primary task was to provide Driscoll with
sex as and when it was required and she obliged without question. She was
Driscoll's to use and abuse as he pleased.

    As
the stolen drink and the drugs began to take hold of them all, Driscoll had
called Baldwin to him, taken her by the arm and led her to Baker's bedroom.
Pushing her into the room, he turned back to the rest of the group and summoned
Baker to join them. Puzzled, but with his light-bulb brain beginning to glow,
Baker had hurried to join Driscoll and Baldwin. The others returned to their
revelries without comment. They had a very good idea of what was going to
happen, even if Myra didn't. She was Driscoll's property and it was clear to
them that he was going to share her with Baker. Theirs was not to reason why.
In the bedroom, Myra had her arms round Driscoll's neck when she heard the
bedroom door shut and turned to see Baker leering at her.

    'Fuck
off, retard,' she snapped dismissively before gazing adoringly into the face of
the man she worshipped. 'Tell him to fuck off, Bobby.'

    'I
promised him he could watch,' Driscoll whispered into her ear, 'give the twat a
bit of a treat.'

    She
pulled back from him and looked questioningly at him. 'Watch? Why?'

    'Don't
worry, it'll be fine,' he breathed into her ear, his tongue flicking around the
lobe. She trusted him and relaxed into him. Over her shoulder, Driscoll grinned
like a wolf and winked at Baker.